


A Half Remembered Dream

by lindenmae



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 15:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindenmae/pseuds/lindenmae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Midsummer Night's Dream inspired AU.  Arthur thinks he has his life figured out.  He has a plan and a lover who doesn't threaten that plan.  But even the best laid plans fall apart.  When his best friends decide to get married, Arthur finds his future threatened.  But an uncertain future is not nearly as frightening as the mischievous faerie that has begun haunting his dreams and pushing Arthur to question his sanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Half Remembered Dream

**Author's Note:**

> There is a significant amount of emotional non-con/ dub-con in this. If you have read/ seen the play then you should pretty much know what to expect. If you haven't, there is a lot of trickery and magic causing certain characters to fall in love with certain other characters against their will.

"Captain of our fairy band,  
Helena is here at hand,  
And the youth, mistook by me,  
Pleading for a lover's fee.  
Shall we their fond pageant see?  
Lord, what fools these mortals be!"

Arthur is on his way home when his phone begins to chirp. After a quick glance to the caller ID, he instinctively changes course and begins walking away from his own apartment and toward Mr. Fischer’s. Mr. Fischer is a friend of or maybe just an acquaintance of Arthur’s boss, or something like that. Arthur met him at a party or a bar or maybe it was a casual encounter on the street. He can’t remember but he never dwells on it long enough to recognize how odd that is. What Arthur does know is, Mr. Fischer is attractive and wealthy and Arthur never says no to him, has never wanted to. It isn’t out of affection or anything remotely like love. Arthur doesn’t say no to Mr. Fischer because Mr. Fischer doesn’t give him a reason to. He’s kind and cordial and rich and gives Arthur whatever he wants. Since Arthur doesn’t want a relationship from Mr. Fischer, he guesses it works out perfectly.

There are two semesters left until Arthur graduates and, because Arthur is _that_ kid, he’s already halfway through applying to grad school and has a solid internship lined up for September. This in July, when most of the kids in his major are still more preoccupied with where they’re going to play drinking games that night than what they’ll be doing with their lives a year from now. So Mr. Fischer fits well into Arthur’s life – he’s successful and not overly demanding. To Arthur, Mr. Fischer is a prime example of the direction he wants his own life to go in. Maybe Mr. Fischer sees something of himself in Arthur, a protégé that he can help guide down the right path. Arthur doesn’t honestly know.

Mr. Fischer is classically handsome, reminiscent of a time when angelic beauty in a man was coveted. Arthur hesitates to refer to a man as beautiful, but Mr. Fischer is. His skin is smooth and almost translucently pale like bone china, eyes that sparkle like sapphires. Arthur falls under his spell anew every time they meet, and for the time being he’s fine with this pattern. He comes when Mr. Fischer calls and in return he gets sex that’s good enough to leave him hazy in the morning and full access to Mr. Fischer’s apartment, which is significantly nicer than his own. After the fact he might notice something off about the entire affair, but the doubts never dig at him enough to make him think twice.

Whatever his relationship with Mr. Fischer is, it’s easier than everything else in his life at the moment. With Mr. Fischer’s hands on his body, Mr. Fischer’s elegant fingers teasing over his skin, rosy lips pressed against the pulse point in his neck, Arthur can allow himself to forget to worry. He gets caught up in the moment in a way he can’t usually manage and, for at least a few hours at a time, he can pretend he’s happy. This isn’t the love of Arthur’s life but falling asleep with Mr. Fischer’s slender arms wrapped around his torso, he’s content enough.

…

Arthur opens his eyes, his view disoriented and fuzzy around the edges. He’s cold and a little wet like he’d fallen asleep outside. Sitting up slowly, he tries to survey the area but can't see past the soft lights twinkling and blurring into each other all around him. He _is_ outside, his back wet from lying in the dew-damp grass. He shivers when a quick breeze brushes past, rustling the leaves on the trees that surround him. He’s in a glen or a grotto of some sort, the babbling of a waterfall reaching his ears from somewhere behind the flora. Fireflies dance around his head, distracting him from getting a proper grasp of his surroundings.

He doesn’t notice the figure approaching at first, subtle movements still hidden by the shadows, but once his eye is caught, he can’t look away. The figure sways toward him as if rocking with the breeze, as natural as the whistle of the wind through the leaves. It’s a part of the grotto, a golem born from the earth and coming to envelop Arthur. Gravitating to the figure, the fireflies illuminate its features and reveal to Arthur that, despite the swish of hips and the elegant flow of the figure’s ragged robes, it is a man, young and beautiful with features as fine as any Hellenistic statue. His hair is long, the silvery gray of a moonbeam, falling in tangles to the man’s middle back. He’s stunning and the congregating lightning bugs create a glow behind his head that makes him shine like some sort of forest god.

The sway becomes a dance and the drab drape of the figure’s coat shifts, falling open and slipping down one shoulder. His skin tone changes from ruddy to pale as he slides in and out of glowing patches punched by starlight through the tree tops. Arthur catches a glimpse of a nipple peeking out from behind gray wool, pulling his eye away from where the moonlight is pooling in the hollow of the man’s collarbone. The man opens his mouth as if to speak but no words reach Arthur’s ears. He hears the wind howling though he doesn’t feel anything, and on the wind there are whispers, soft and wistful. He suddenly wants to go to the figure, wants to take the hand that is reaching out for him and let this spirit of the forest wrap him in strong arms and pull him into the soil or give him roots and turn him into a tree like Daphne. Whatever the spirit wants Arthur suddenly wants to give him, drunk on the moment, as if the spirit is calling to him with some sort of siren song and he’s helpless to resist. The spirit smiles, his eyes flashing blue then green then gray, and Arthur feels the breath punched out of his chest with the brilliance of it.

Gasping, Arthur sits up, the bedclothes pooled around his hips. He’s naked in his own bed and alone. The dream is still clear in his mind, the feel of the man’s fingertips against his cheek still tingling like the fragile touch of a spider’s web and the name Robin Goodfellow on the tip of his tongue. Looking around his bedroom, he’s confused, certain that he’d gone to sleep elsewhere, but it’s just a niggling notion in the back of his head. Pushing it down, he tries to remember just how much he drank the night before to have forgotten but he doesn't remember drinking at all. There’s a moment of panic when his phone begins ringing shrilly, but he finds it buried in the bedding and forgets everything when he sees Dom’s name flashing on the caller ID.

…

Arthur stares at the bare skin of the third finger on Dom’s left hand. It’s strange how something as simple as a tan line can be so telling about a person. Dom’s finger is all one creamy color because there hasn’t been a ring there yet, but Arthur is acutely aware of one thing – there soon will be.

“Miles won’t approve,” Arthur says numbly, still staring at Dom’s hand.

“I don’t care. We’ll elope. I love her, Arthur. I want to grow old with her. I’m _going_ to marry her.”

“Elope,” Arthur repeats.

“It’s not that sudden,” Dom says, finally taking note of the shocked expression on Arthur’s face.

“No, it’s not,” Arthur concedes, because Dom’s right, of course. Dom and Mal have been together for years, a lifetime it feels like if Arthur counts the ages Dom spent pining for her. This isn’t a surprise, but it is a disappointment. Deep down Arthur knew this would happen eventually, he just hoped it wouldn’t be so soon.

“You’ll be my best man, right? Arthur?”

Arthur looks up, meets Dom’s eyes. They’re so blue, so earnest. He forces himself to smile.

“Of course.”

“Good. Good,” Dom says. His smile is brilliant, teeth perfectly even and white. “Ariadne’s going to be the maid of honor. We’ll all have to go out. She’s on board with this, Arthur.”

Nodding, Arthur forces himself to keep his eyes on Dom’s face and not on his bare finger tapping against the table, and wonders why he’s supposed to care what Mal’s sister thinks. His world is falling apart, years of carefully constructed delusions shattered in the blink of an eye. He lets his gaze go unfocused, nods to whatever Dom says, makes a lot of promises he won’t remember later. Then finally, thankfully, Dom leaves and Arthur is left alone to lose his mind in peace.

Arthur loves Dom, like a brother and in other ways too. It’s more of a hero worship type of love than a lingering, unrequited desire. Years ago, if Dom had shown any inclination, Arthur would have been happy to love him _that_ way, to have been _in_ love with him, but Dom met Mal and that was that. Mal was lovely and wonderful and Arthur couldn’t hate her, not when she made room for him, not when she made sure that there was always enough room in Dom’s heart for the both of them. Mal’s portion is bigger, Arthur knows that, but Mal made it clear from the beginning that _she_ had enough love for anyone who deserved it and she believed that Arthur deserved it. He had no choice but to love her in return. She demanded it and he gave it to her willingly.

It’s not Dom that he’s afraid of losing; it’s the three of them. Marriage is a contract, it has permanence. It’s a promise. It’ll no longer be Dom and Mal sharing their lives, but the merging of two lives into one. Instead of Dom and Mal and Arthur it will be Dom and Mal, and Arthur when they have time for the oxford comma. He’s crushed and beyond that, he’s afraid he’ll never find what they have, that he’ll never be so happy just to be with one other person. Arthur’s content with Mr. Fischer now, but he does want something grander than contentment one day.

…

Arthur gets a few free days of moping before Mal’s sister gets in from Paris, but then he has to put on a happy face and pretend he doesn’t feel raw like an open wound inside. They go out for drinks, just the four of them, and already Arthur can feel things shifting. Mal and Dom sit so close to each other they’re practically on the same seat and they don’t stop touching even for a second, their fingers always brushing at the very least. Their eyes are wide and full of adoration and Dom’s are just a slightly deeper shade of blue than Mal’s. Lost in their love for each other, it’s as if the rest of the world has ceased to exist.

Arthur sits next to Ariadne who is pretty and bright, but Arthur knows it’s hard to sparkle in Mal’s shadow. Ariadne holds herself with a confidence born out of having to strive for attention; it’s fragile but steady like she’s been waiting a long time to be noticed. She’s a sapling reaching for what little sun she can get beneath the leaves of Mal’s grand Oak. Arthur immediately recognizes a kindred spirit, but not in the way Dom and Mal had intended he realizes by the end of the night.

He makes conversation with Ariadne because Dom and Mal are impossible in their bubble, only reaching out with barely disguised efforts to push Arthur and Ariadne closer together. Ariadne is whip-smart and driven, with a cutting humor entirely her own. She’s sharp where Mal is soft and Arthur thinks it works for her, that it won’t be long until someone looks at Ariadne and doesn’t see Mal at all, until Ariadne can shine on her own and Mal fades into the background. It just won’t be him. He feels bad for that but it can’t be helped. When the night is over and they say goodbye in front of the bar, Dom and Mal and Ariadne sharing a cab to the same destination, Arthur gives Ariadne a chaste peck on the cheek and inwardly chastises himself when she looks disappointed.

“I’m sorry, I –“ he starts, but she waves him off, already smiling again.

“No, I understand. Can’t force something that isn’t there, right?” She glances toward Dom and Mal and leans into him. “They’re like supernovas, you know? Sometimes I worry I’m never going to feel that way.”

Arthur stiffens but Ariadne doesn’t seem to feel it. “Yea. Yea I know what you mean. I think you’ll find yours someday. You’re a great girl. There’s someone out there who will love you that much, probably multiple someones.”

“Just not you, right?” Her tone is a little wistful but she’s still watching Dom and Mal.

“No, I guess not,” Arthur mumbles as their cab pulls up to the curb and the three of them pile in, waving at him and calling goodnight.

Shivering in the early morning air, he tries to clear his head before starting the short walk home. He doesn’t notice the man watching from the alley mouth behind him and he brushes off the sharp clap of footsteps on the pavement as those of another bar patron.

The dark and the cool remind him of something, like a half-formed memory, but he can’t put a finger on it. With his head down, he watches the sidewalk disappear beneath his feet and tries to pin down the fleeting images into one cohesive idea, but every time he gets close to forming a face, the images dissipate like smoke. He’s startled near out of his skin when he hears his name called just as Mr. Fischer steps out of the shadows in front of him.

“Arthur,” Mr. Fischer says again a little louder, a soft smile on his face like Arthur’s done something amusing. “I’ve been calling you.”

“You have?” Arthur’s eyes widen and he stops short, digging into his pocket for his phone. Looking around, he realizes that he’s walked quite a bit further than he thought and after checking his phone, he’s surprised to see several missed calls over the course of nearly half an hour. He isn’t home yet somehow, even though he only lives a few minutes brisk walk from the bar. “Oh.”

Mr. Fischer steps into his space, smelling like expensive cologne, and Arthur instinctively leans into him. Mr. Fischer’s fingers curling over his shoulder are grounding and Arthur tilts his head up out of habit to receive the kiss that should be coming. He’s annoyed at the unexplained loss of time, but Mr. Fischer’s body against his is distracting. But instead of returning the kiss, Mr. Fischer stiffens and looks over Arthur’s shoulder at something in the shadows. Arthur tries to twist around to see what’s put such suspicion in the man’s sparkling blue eyes, but Mr. Fischer slides an arm around his shoulders, keeping him facing forward.

“Come home with me?” He asks, faking a smile, and Arthur narrows his eyes but leans into Mr. Fischer’s side, allowing himself to be guided across the street.

All the subtle strength in Mr. Fischer’s embrace can’t overcome Arthur’s unease though, and he’s itching to pull away and demand an explanation when a voice suddenly laughs out from the darkness behind them.

“Naughty, naughty, Milord.”

Mr. Fischer’s grasp on Arthur’s shoulders tightens but isn’t enough to hold. There’s a sudden flash of light and Arthur stumbles forward only to find he’s alone on a stage, Mr. Fischer nowhere to be seen. Swallowing hard, he looks around, heart beating rapidly against his ribcage. There are faces staring up at him from crudely carved wooden seats, their expressions all reflecting varying degrees of amusement like the one Mr. Fischer had bestowed on him earlier. And he _had_ just been with Mr. Fischer, hadn’t he?  
Arthur’s audience watches him expectantly as if he’s been given a cue and missed it somehow, forgotten lines that he’s supposed to know by heart. They are all off somehow, not quite human, their dresses and suits blending with the overgrowth of the glen that this impromptu performance is set in, and their hairstyles are multihued tangles of blue and green and purple and red, like running water and newly bloomed blossoms. They’re _faeries_ , he suddenly knows with certainty and they’ve all come to judge him. It’s then that his forest spirit from the night before comes wandering up the aisle that splits the audience. Arthur calms even though he knows he’s in danger, that this man is _not_ here to protect him.

“He is rather lovely, is he not?” Arthur’s gray faerie murmurs as he approaches and there is a rumbling of assent even though he was hardly loud enough in his speech to be heard.

If every faerie in this glen resembles themselves after something natural, then Arthur’s faerie is ash. He is what comes after something has been destroyed, before it can be rebuilt or reborn. He is the transition of the phoenix from death into life again. His eyes twinkle and soot is smudged beneath them, making them stand out more blue than they had before. Arthur subconsciously leans into the touch when the faerie reaches for him, stroking his knuckles over Arthur’s cheekbones.

“Eames,” comes a voice from the crowd, but Arthur can’t be bothered to search for it, transfixed by the faerie’s eyes on him. “My lord will not be amused by your mischief, Eames. He didn’t ask me to brew you the idlewild potion so that you might play with Lord Robert’s mortal like a cat with a mouse.”

Arthur’s faerie, _Eames_ , smiles toothily but doesn’t take his eyes from Arthur. “I only wanted to see for myself what mortal could cause our queen to stray, Yusuf. Don’t tell me you were not the least bit curious, yourself?”

“My lord does not like it when you refer to his husband as the queen, Eames.”

“Saito has not had my head yet, my dear Yusuf. Not to fret. I always do as I am told eventually. Leave this dream if you must, my friend, I will be done soon enough.”

For a fleeting second Arthur thinks he should feel unsettled by the predatory leer in the faerie’s smile, but there isn’t time before the brush of lips against his, soft as the downy feather of a baby bird, and once again Arthur wakes gasping in his own bed.

He untangles himself from the bedclothes and stumbles to his desk, digging through the drawers until he finds a blank notebook and a pencil that’s sharp enough to write with. He slams it down on the desktop and he writes. He writes down every detail of his dream before they can fade from his mind – the woods, the stage, the faeries. He writes down the words he can remember, jumbled up and fuzzy, and the names. He writes Eames and he writes Robin Goodfellow and he writes Puck. He tries to describe the forest spirit, the faerie that had touched him, _kissed him_ \- the ashen color of his hair, the ever-changing hue of his eyes, the shape of his lips that had pressed so softly against Arthur’s own, but though the images are still stark in his mind’s eye, the words elude him. He can’t put the details to paper.

The lead of his pencil presses through the paper, ripping it in places when he’s frustrated because he can’t find the right words. He writes everything he can until there’s nothing left. Looking over what he’s written, he traces the silvery letters with his fingertip until he gets to the end. The last words he wrote are ‘I woke up’. His heart pounding as he looks at them, his breath catches and he flips the pencil, pressing the eraser to the paper. He doesn’t know. He honestly doesn’t know if he’s woken up or not.

…

“It’s now or never,” Dom says with a finality that makes Arthur nervous. “Miles saw the ring. We’re eloping tomorrow night.”

Arthur rubs a hand over his still sleep-puffy face and suppresses a disappointed sigh. He isn’t ready for this. He wants his friends to be happy, he does, but he isn’t ready to let them go, to stand beside them and watch them forget about him in their joy. It’s selfish and he’ll pretend not to feel that way in front of them, but inside he’ll be losing his mind. He can’t quite delude himself into believing schoolwork will be enough to distract him.

“Mal is a grown woman,” Arthur says, a hint of exhaustion slipping through in his voice. “Her father can’t _stop_ you two from getting married.”

“This is what _she_ wants, Arthur, and I intend to spend the rest of my life giving her what she wants.”

“Okay, Dom,” he says flatly, because there’s no arguing with Dom, never has been.

“Meet us at the train station in the morning?” Dom’s voice lilts at the end as if he isn’t sure that Arthur will say yes, but if there is one thing that Arthur is, it is loyal to a fault.

“Yea, I’ll be there. Of course I’ll be there.”

…

When Mr. Fischer calls that night, Arthur ignores the call.

…

“I can’t decide what about you I find so intriguing,” the faerie tells him, his voice a soft rumble that reaches all the way to Arthur’s bones. “You’re delightful to look at, no question there, but otherwise you seem a bit boring.”

They’re alone again in the glen, the fireflies blinking at the edge of Arthur’s vision. Arthur feels lightheaded and unbalanced but he tries to fight it, to be aware of himself. He doesn’t know if he’s awake or if he’s dreaming, if this world is real or if his apartment and Dom and Mal and Ariadne are what’s real. He doesn’t know.

“Who _are_ you,” he asks, the first time he’s managed to speak in one of these… dreams, visions, hallucinations.

“I have many names,” the faerie says as he strokes a finger across Arthur’s cheekbone. “I’ve been called many things over many years.”

“Puck,” Arthur whispers.

“Puck,” the faerie repeats. “Robin Goodfellow. Robin _Hood_ for a while, though that legend has been exaggerated out of proportion. Hobgoblin.”

“Eames,” Arthur says more firmly, remembering what his companion had called him before.

The faerie raises a brow as if surprised. “You really shouldn’t remember that. Is it intelligence, then, that makes my lord’s love so fond of you?”

“What? What are you talking about? What is _happening_ to me?”

The faerie smiles, toothy and pleased, and his eyes crinkle at the corners and sparkle like the moonlight. Uncurling his fingers, Eames presses his thumbs to the apples of Arthur’s cheeks and strokes them along the curves beneath his eyes, smoothing out the skin that is beginning to purple with exhaustion. Arthur feels like he hasn’t slept since these strange dreams began.

“Oh, lovely, mortal Arthur. You’ve caught the attention of the wrong sort of people.”

“Like you?” Arthur tilts his chin up, trying to look defiant despite the way the faerie’s fingers are still tracing over his face. Eames leans in, brushing his lips over Arthur’s lightly. Arthur snarls at the heady feeling that rushes over him and tries to bite Eames’s bottom lip.

Eames’s eyes light up with delight and he laughs, loud and sharp. “No, no, darling. I’m the _worst_ one.”

“ _You_ are,” Arthur says, flat and doubtful and yet… Eames is the only one that Arthur has seen or spoken to. Eames is the one keeping him awake at night or asleep during the day. Eames is the one driving him mad. “Are you going to hurt me?”

A myriad of emotions flicker over the faerie’s face and Arthur can’t pin one down.

“I hadn’t decided yet. You’ve proven to be a bit of a puzzle. At first I was only curious to see what kind of mortal could be worth the ire of the faerie king, but now… I find I’m inexplicably drawn to you myself. You’re different than most mortals I’ve dealt with – stronger and stubborn as an ox, if your memory for detail is any example. Generally, the idlewild causes most mortals to forget their experiences upon waking and yet, you refuse to.”

Arthur is too light-headed to be truly afraid, but it’s close. He knows, logically, that he should be. The mildly annoyed look on Eames’s face makes it clear he isn’t being complimented.

“Are you going to kill me?” He asks, trying to keep his voice from breaking. He squares his shoulders and stands up straight, trying to appear more confident than he feels.

“I should,” Eames says and his voice sounds full of regret. His eyes have gone soft though, unhappy but alight at the same time. He looks at Arthur like he can’t understand him, like he’s as baffled by what’s happening as Arthur is. “It wasn’t meant to go like this. I had expected some pretty and weak little thing that I could crush beneath my boot, but you… I was not expecting you. I have no doubt you would fight me if I wrapped my hands around your throat and tried to make that fire in your eyes go out.”

As hard as Arthur tries to shake his mind free of the fog that has settled over it and act rationally, he can’t clear it. The edges of his vision are blurry, but Eames’s face in front of him is sharp, vivid. He’s beautiful, more beautiful than Mr. Fischer because he’s flawed. His nose looks as if it’s been broken more than once and when he smiles, it’s crooked. Arthur _lets_ Mr. Fischer touch him. He _wants_ to touch Eames, to drag his fingernails down Eames’s chest where his robes have fallen askew and part them further, expose the skin. He can see the barest hints of ink spiraling out from beneath the dark wool and he wants to see more. And he doesn’t… he doesn’t understand why.

“Am I going insane?”

“Only a little mad, darling.” Eames smiles ruefully and this time when he kisses Arthur, it isn’t tentative and it isn’t light.

The blood rushes away from Arthur’s brain, causing a roaring in his ears. He feels like he’s on fire, every touch of Eames’s fingers against his skin like a lick of flame. Only he doesn’t want it to stop. He wants more. He’s never wanted anyone in this way, never felt so willing to let go of his control. He melts into the kiss, letting Eames devour his mouth, a battle of tangling tongues and Eames’s fingers twisted in Arthur’s clothes.

Eames pulls away, panting, conflict brewing in the searching gaze he levels on Arthur.

“I wouldn’t normally, but this entire situation has proven to be far from what is normal… I would ask your permission,” Eames says, almost nonsensically, but somehow Arthur understands. He’s caught up in the passion, in the moment, and he doesn’t even think about how odd it is that, if he _is_ dreaming, his subconscious would ask permission of itself.

Arthur nods, dry-mouthed, and doesn’t stop himself when the urge to slip his fingers beneath Eames’s robes overtakes him. Eames hisses when Arthur’s fingernail drags over the exposed nipple and the sound sends an electric thrill coursing through Arthur’s veins. He pushes the material further down Eames’s shoulders, exposes the first curling line of script on Eames’s skin, written in a language that Arthur doesn’t understand. Eames’s skin is a color that Arthur can’t quite name; it changes minutely, resembling the shifting sands of an hourglass. Eames moves fluidly, with a grace that Arthur has only ever seen managed by dancers. Every touch of his hands leaves a burning imprint on Arthur’s skin and he can’t bear it but he can’t bear for it to stop.

He lets Eames strip him of a nondescript t-shirt and pair of jeans that he’s certain he doesn’t own in reality, until he’s bare and his skin prickles with the slight chill and the loss of Eames’s touch. Eames lays him down in the dewy grass and licks his lips as he looks Arthur over, his pupils blown wide and obscuring the tricky color of his eyes. Eames lets the robes fall from his body unbearably slowly, and Arthur tracks every inch of exposed skin with the keen sense of anticipation and hunger that he imagines an animal on the hunt must feel. As Eames levers his body over Arthur’s, he smiles and there is something predatory in it but something genuine also. Arthur feels wanted in a way he has never experienced before. He cries out when Eames sinks his teeth into the tendon between his shoulder and neck, claiming him, and Arthur digs his fingernails in furrows down Eames’s back, making his own claim in turn.

…

The notebook sits in the bottom of Arthur’s duffel, a constant, burning presence in the back of his mind. He would be mortified if one of his friends should find it, but he can’t bear to leave it behind. The newest entry hardly makes sense and he ended it with a statement that makes his cheeks flush just to think of it. He’s in love with a figment of his own imagination, a projection of his subconscious. He can barely focus on anything due to the flashes of his dreams that invade his thoughts at any given moment, and he’s losing his mind - he knows it. But one thing he remembers clearly is the faerie from his dreams promising him that he’s only going a little insane –

_Only a little mad, darling…_

Arthur still hasn’t decided if he’s truly woken up or not.

They’re huddled together in a tight group, Mal and Dom constantly looking over their shoulders as if Mal’s father would actually follow them to the train depot with a posse at his back to stop them from eloping. Arthur rolls his eyes at one point when only Ariadne is looking and she giggles quietly, easing the tension for the two of them somewhat. But Dom and Mal don’t breathe their own sighs of relief until they board the train and find a cluster of seats situated away from any of the other passengers.

Arthur wants to speak up, tell Mal and Dom that they’re being rash and impulsive and that none of this is necessary. If they would only wait a few more years, Miles would eventually give his approval. Having heard it from the lips of the man himself, Arthur knows this for a fact. Miles thinks they’re too young, only wants for both of them to finish school before they commit themselves to marriage. He wants his daughter to develop a strong sense of individuality before she no longer has time. Miles just doesn’t want his eldest daughter to lose herself in her husband, to give up her dreams before she has a chance to achieve them because she’s caught up in Dom, and mortgages, and children that Miles is afraid she isn’t ready to raise. Mal is a romantic, a heart full to bursting with love, and her father is only afraid that she will give all of that love away and won’t know when to stop so that she might keep some of it for herself.

Arthur wants to tell Mal and Dom all of this, but he doesn’t know how to articulate it and it isn’t the best man’s job to stop the wedding from happening. He’s there to make certain that it does. Arthur’s greatest character flaw is his sense of loyalty, especially to Dom. However he feels about this wedding, Dom and Mal’s relationship, and the aching sense of loss he already feels every time he tries to picture the future, he’s going to stand by his best friend’s side whether he’s heading to his doom or an unlikely happy ending. Besides, Arthur isn’t stupid. He knows that even if he did bother to voice his opinion it would only spur Mal and Dom on further. Detractors to their romance can only be proven wrong in their minds. They’re determined and unstoppable and Arthur would rather be along for the ride so that he’s able to pick up the pieces in the case that it all falls apart.

They’re all abnormally quiet, Mal and Dom staring intently into each other’s eyes, whispering grand declarations that make Arthur’s head hurt if he tries to listen. He loses himself to deep thought, encouraged by the low rumble of the train. It takes him a frighteningly long time to realize that Ariadne is staring at him with wide, surprised eyes and actually kicking him under the table. A bottle of champagne and four full flutes have appeared on said table and Arthur has no idea where they came from. Ariadne shoots a look to a row of seats across the aisle from them and Arthur follows it to find a man dressed in varying shades of charcoal smirking at him. It’s not the man that looks familiar, all bulky muscle beneath the clean lines of a black button-up shirt that’s open at the throat to show just a hint of a tattoo across his collar bone, but the smirk. Arthur’s mouth goes instantly dry and his heart starts to pound.

He can’t quite place it but he knows that look from somewhere, from some half-remembered dream.

Dom and Mal have gleefully picked up their glasses and are swallowing the champagne in large, undignified gulps by the time Arthur gets his head back on his shoulders.

“Toast with us, Arthur,” Mal demands happily, physically curling Ariadne’s fingers around the stem of her own champagne flute.

Arthur chances a glance back at the man, who nods once, lips curling up. The man’s hair is short, parted and gelled. Arthur can’t decide if it’s brown or blond in the dim lighting of the cabin.

“In celebration of the impending nuptials,” the man says, his voice low but audible over the train’s rumble. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”

There is another man seated across from the first who barely glances away from the window when the first man speaks. He is impeccably dressed, holding himself with a regal authority even seated, and the look he levels upon the first man is slightly disdainful. Arthur lifts his glass in a sign of thanks, bemused at the whole situation, and drinks with the rest of his party, his usual suspicious nature uncharacteristically tempered.

…

Opening his eyes slowly, Arthur blinks several times until the world around him is a little less blurry. His head is pounding and, even though he can only remember taking the one sip of champagne, he feels as if he drank the entire bottle. The car is bathed in a type of unearthly half-light that casts a silver sheen over everything it touches and makes the shadows stretch out eerily. Sitting up, he gingerly rubs at his temples. It takes him a minute or two to realize that he is alone at the table and then to notice that he is alone in the entire compartment.

His heart slams against his ribcage as he looks around, searching for his friends, until a movement to his right catches his attention. He hadn’t been there only a moment before, Arthur swears, but in a seat across the aisle is the man who had given them the champagne, who had winked and smiled at Arthur and looked so familiar. He looks the same – well-built and well-groomed but for a five o’ clock shadow. But the twilight changes Arthur’s perspective, or reminds him of what he couldn’t grasp before. The man’s hair looks ashen as the shadows play over it and his eyes change color every time Arthur is forced to refocus his gaze, from blue to green to gray.

“What the fuck?” The words are flat, Arthur is tired. He knows he won’t get a straight answer, but he feels the need to question just for the sake of it.

Eames, because this _is_ Eames if a bit more tangible this way, looks almost perturbed, his lush lips turned down in a frown.

“Darling,” he says softly, face lighting up just a little when he sees Arthur is awake… or whatever he ever is anymore, _aware_ at least.

“Am I dreaming?” The colors are wrong but this Eames is wrong too and Arthur can’t tell anymore. He doesn’t know which Eames is real, if either of them are.

“Let’s just say I was given a task, the outcome of which I do not prefer.”

“That doesn’t mean _anything_ to me,” Arthur argues, exasperated, words straining a bit at the end into a whine. He doesn’t care if he sounds petulant, since he’s mostly certain at this point that he’s arguing with a figment of his imagination.

He does notice, though, that there is a very large difference between now and any other time he’s encountered the faerie. He’s arguing. He’s lucid enough to accept and act on the fact that Eames is an asshole and deliberately obtuse and -whether Eames is a projection of Arthur’s subconscious or not- he is fed up.

“Unfortunately it has everything to _do_ with you, doesn’t it?” Eames muses, eyes narrowing.

“Does it?” Arthur cries, angry now. Standing, a little woozy but determined, he stalks across the aisle in two steps, hands fisted. “I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know _anything_ except that I’m probably going crazy.”

Eames stands to meet him so that Arthur no longer has the advantage of height to seem imposing. Reaching up to stroke Arthur’s cheek with the back of his hand, he almost looks apologetic.

“I told you, you’d gotten yourself involved with the wrong sort. You’re rather unique for a mortal, Arthur. You’re smart –foxlike almost, and you’re determined. You cottoned on to my games quite quickly, but unfortunately you didn’t catch it when the King of Avalon’s husband became infatuated with you. I was right baffled at first but believe me; I understand his obsession now that I’ve had a taste of you.

“I assume he originally just wanted a plaything - someone beneath him that he could manipulate as King Saito does to him - but that’s just it... my lord Robert isn’t really free to do as he pleases, is he? And you being just a lowly mortal, my king wanted you done away with, driven mad,” Eames says with a wry twist of his lips.

“But you see; now he’s changed his mind. He’s found a neater solution to the problem,” Eames spits unhappily. “But this solution does not benefit _me_ so I’ve created my own. Mine is significantly more chaotic and does not solve anything actually, but I will be quite happy at the outcome of it all and really, what’s more important than one’s own fulfillment?”

Arthur jerks his head away from Eames’s touch with a bit more force than necessary, wincing at the crick in his neck it causes. He doesn’t feel drugged for once, but he still delights in Eames’s touch more than he thinks he sanely should and it’s not easy to tear himself away from it.

“Quit fucking with me,” he says darkly, enunciating each syllable.

Eames’s gaze goes hard and he smiles, a sharp-edged terrifying thing. “Fine, darling.”

Eames blurs and shifts; it hurts Arthur’s eyes to keep looking at him and he has to blink. When he opens his eyes, Eames is gone and Arthur’s breath catches in his throat. Standing in front of Arthur, in all of his perfection and fragile beauty, is Mr. Fischer. He’s smiling a soft, melancholy smile and looking at Arthur with the same fond amusement he always has, like one would look at an adorable puppy.

“Catching on yet, Arthur?” Mr. Fischer asks and it’s his voice but not his words. Mr. Fischer has never expected more of Arthur than to come when called. “What do you know about me, Arthur?”

It takes a second for Arthur to get his breath back enough to speak, to get his brain back on track enough to _think_. When he opens his mouth, he finds he has nothing to say, just whispers ‘Mr. Fischer’ dumbly.

“Think hard, Arthur. How did you get here? How did you find yourself in my bed? As my lover?”

Arthur tries to remember, wracks his brain for a clue, for any solid memory of how he and Mr. Fischer met. Clenching his fists, he closes his eyes and desperately tries to recall even the first time he slept with Mr. Fischer. He can’t. There’s nothing there.

“I don’t know. _I don’t know_ ,” Arthur finally relents, the realization a crushing weight on his chest. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_! What the _fuck_?”

Arthur doubles over, feeling sick. Mr. Fischer begins to shift and blur and Arthur panics. He doesn’t want to see what’s coming next, what more realizations he has to face. He doesn’t want to see Eames. He turns away, finds the door to the next cabin, and runs.

…

The entire train seems to be bathed in the same soft, silvery light and it mutes the colors that he knows he should see and it makes Arthur dizzy. He pushes on desperately, until he hears a soft sobbing over his own labored breathing. Tentatively sliding open the door to the cabin he thinks it’s coming from, he finds Mal curled up in a corner, tears slowly dripping down her cheeks. She looks dazed, as if she can’t believe whatever has made her cry.

“Mal?” Pushing into the room, he kneels beside her and reaches out to cup the crown of her head with his hand. She looks up, bleary-eyed but the spark of recognition is there.

“Oh, Arthur,” she cries, burying her face into his shoulder.

“Mal, what happened? What’s wrong?”

“He’s left me! We must have fallen asleep and when we woke, Dom had this terrible look on his face. He seemed so confused and when I touched him, oh,” she breaks on a sob and Arthur can feel his shirt sleeve dampening. “He pulled _away_ from me, like he didn't know me! And then, then he saw Ariadne, and… and, Arthur, he _kissed_ her. He kissed _her_ , right in front of me!”

“What?” Arthur suddenly feels numb, no longer noticing Mal’s tears soaking his clothes. She’s shaking against him and his arms are wrapped around her, but he can’t feel her.

This isn’t right, and Arthur, who is finally putting the pieces all together, has a terrible idea why. Maybe he doesn’t understand the reasoning behind the actions, but he knows who did this.

“What’s happening, Arthur? What did I do? We’re on our way to be _married_. How can he possibly be in love with my sister? _How_?”

Arthur pets Mal’s hair by rote, acting automatically while his thoughts race elsewhere. He hates to leave Mal, but a sudden, sick feeling in his gut tells him that he needs to find Ariadne as soon as possible.

“Mal, stay here, alright? Okay?” Mal doesn’t nod or otherwise indicate she’s understood or even heard Arthur, but he has to go. He presses a kiss to the top of her head and gets to his feet, pushing out the door with a terrifying urgency.

He has an idea -more like a desperate hope- that this is all just a very bad dream. Dom can’t be suddenly in love with Ariadne, not when he’s been mad about Mal for most of their lives. He can’t just wake up and change his mind. Unless some bastard faerie felt he wasn’t getting his way and made Dom do it. Arthur knows Eames didn’t give him the full story, and that’s probably mostly his own fault for not waiting around to hear it, so he doesn’t know what it is that Eames _wants_ except to make Arthur miserable. The man essentially admitted to driving Arthur insane and yet, Arthur can’t lie to himself and say he’s ever been happier than in Eames’s presence.

He keeps pushing down the center of the train, absurdly thankful of the setting. There are only so many directions he can go and a set number of doors he can open before he has to find Ariadne and Dom. It still feels like an eternity before he tries to open a door and it won’t budge, locked from the inside. Excited, he pounds on it, shaking the entire wall.

“Ariadne! Ariadne, are you in there?”

“Go away! I don’t know what you’re on, Dom, but this is fucked up! If this is a joke, I’m _not_ laughing!”

Breathing a sigh of relief that Ariadne still seems to have her faculties, Arthur resumes his pounding.

“Ariadne, it’s Arthur.”

“Oh, great. Are you suddenly in love with me now, too? You guys are assholes, you know that?”

“Um, yea, probably that’s true on a general scale but I promise, Ariadne, I have nothing to do with this.” Arthur cringes at the lie, but doesn’t take it back. At its very core, it’s the truth. He didn’t _choose_ for any of this to happen, even if he is the root cause. Eames is doing this because of him, but Arthur didn’t ask him to and that has to count for something. “Ariadne, I swear on my life that I am not now, nor have I ever been in love with you.”

He’s barely finished talking before the door swings open, Ariadne behind it and glaring up at him furiously. “What the _fuck_ , Arthur.”

He sighs. “I have asked that same question myself, too many times today.”

“What was in that champagne?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. He remembers the term idlewild from somewhere, but he doesn’t know what that means.

Ariadne opens her mouth to rant at him again, but she’s silenced by the faint sound of someone yelling her name. Dom's voice is so broken and mournful, it doesn't sound much like him at all. Frightened, she roughly grabs for Arthur, manhandling him inside the small compartment with more force than he ever thought such a tiny girl could be capable of.

“I can’t deal with this,” she hisses. “I don’t know what to do. I want to go find Mal but the look in her eyes… God, Arthur, I’ve never seen her look like that before.”

“Look, I saw her and… she is pretty upset.” He positions himself between her and door as Dom’s voice gets louder. He can hear the echoes of Dom pounding on doors, getting closer and more furious. The door to their compartment rattles in its frame, harder with each step Dom takes closer to them.

Arthur doesn’t know what he’s going to do, but he knows he’ll hit Dom if he has to. His friend isn’t in his right mind and his behavior isn’t his fault, but Arthur’s pretty sure rational thought is out of Dom’s grasp by now, so talking him down probably isn’t an option.

“Okay, okay,” he mutters mostly to himself, wrapping his fingers around Ariadne’s forearm. “We’re going to run.”

“What?” Ariadne is starting to sound hysterical and Arthur knows his plan isn’t the best, but he would like to avoid violence if possible.

The door rattles hard -Dom is close- and Arthur’s decision is made.

“Now!”

He shoves the door open and drags Ariadne through it, looking around just long enough to decide which direction Dom is coming from and go in the other.

“Ariadne! Ariadne, _please_ ,” Dom calls once he sees her, and he sounds wrecked. Arthur can hardly handle it. He’s never felt worse about doubting Dom and Mal. He never wanted to put his friends in this position, never thought his jealousy would amount to this. And it’s not _his_ jealousy that made this happen, but Arthur can’t quite accept the idea that any of this is _truly_ happening. If Eames _is_ his subconscious, then this is just a manifestation of Arthur’s own fears.

“ _Come on_ ,” Arthur growls, pulling Ariadne behind him, keeping her upright by sheer will alone when she stumbles.

He can hear Dom running after them, his footfalls heavy on the train floor. They’re clumsy though, and Dom is not clumsy by nature; he’s easily distracted and has a tendency to daydream but he’s _not_ clumsy. If Arthur needed anymore indication that the world had tilted on its axis, that would be a cincher. They’re going in the direction from which Arthur originally came, toward where he left Mal and, unfortunately, toward where he left Eames. They don’t have a choice with Dom lumbering behind them, calling out for Ariadne like just a glimpse of her face would ease his pain even a bit.

When he gets to the door of the cabin where he’d left Mal, Arthur pushes it open and stops dumbstruck. Mal isn’t there and Dom is closing in and Arthur can’t… he doesn’t know what to _do_.

“Arthur?” Ariadne asks frantically, tugging on his arm. But Arthur can’t move. He’s tired, _bone_ tired and he almost wants to cry.

“Ariadne, please, why won’t you believe that I love you? _Please_ , you have to understand. I’ve never felt this strongly about anyone. I’ll die without you!”

Arthur turns, slowly coming out of his stupor. Dom is on the ground, on his knees, his arms wrapped around Ariadne’s hips. She’s trying to push him away but he won’t go, clinging to her like a leech. Arthur has never seen anyone more in love with another person than Dom is supposed to be with Mal, but he never spoke to her like that. It was all poetry and elegant metaphors, not bullshit declarations out of a dime store romance novel.

“How could you do this to me? You’re my _sister_ , how could you _do this to me_?”

The wailing is worthy of a banshee, Ariadne and Arthur both turning their heads sharply when they hear it, and Arthur’s blood goes cold. Mal is standing between them and the door to the next car, her cheeks tear-stained and the skin around her eyes bruised and red and swollen. She’s no less beautiful like this than when she is freshly made up, but there is a look about her now that isn’t right, that isn’t _Mal_. The knife clutched in her fist significantly adds to the feeling.

“Mal! I didn’t, I swear. I have no idea what’s going on! There’s something wrong with him, can’t you see?”

Mal’s eyes are hard and Ariadne’s are wide as her sister approaches with steady steps, though her shoulders sway slightly. Arthur can’t help but wonder if he wouldn’t react this way too, if he’d ever been so in love and had it stolen out from under him like that.

“You were always jealous of me,” Mal says coldly and Ariadne flinches visibly as the words hit her like a slap in the face.

“That isn’t true.”

“It is. You always felt like you were in my shadow and you just couldn’t stand it. You couldn’t let me be happy because you were so _unhappy_. You did this on purpose. I don’t know how, but I know you did.”

“Mal,” Ariadne tries, silent tears thickening the words in her throat.

“You have no idea what it is to be a lover, Ariadne, what it is to be truly happy. You just couldn’t stand that I was, so you had to take it from me.” Mal raises the knife slowly, the blade glinting in the changing light from the train’s windows.

To Arthur, it all seems to be happening in slow motion. He’s between Mal and Ariadne before he’s even fully processed the thought, angling his body so that if Mal brings that blade down it’s going into his back. He can’t breathe, can’t think, just moves. Ariadne shrieks as Mal strikes and Arthur closes his eyes and waits for the pain.

“Well, quite enough of that, I think,” says a voice and when Arthur blinks open his eyes, the train conductor is twirling Mal’s knife between his index finger and thumb and Mal is in a motionless heap on the floor.

The conductor smiles widely at him, eyes sparkling, and Arthur is a fraction of a second away from snarling and lunging at him, clawing those opalescent eyes out just to make his own point, when another voice speaks from behind them.

“That _is_ enough, Eames.” The voice is deep and regal and dripping with disapproval. Eames flinches and drops the farce, actually managing to look slightly ashamed.

When Arthur looks, he recognizes the other man from before this particular part of his nightmare began, the one that had sat across from Eames when he’d given them the champagne and eyed him disdainfully even then. Arthur can guess pretty easily that this must be the King of Avalon that Eames had spoken of. There’s another man just behind him, shorter and a little rounder, holding a vial of rose-colored liquid and looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Was only doing as you said, my lord,” Eames mutters petulantly, trying to look properly reprimanded, but Arthur can see his downcast eyes sparking.

“This is _hardly_ what I asked you to do, not that I should be surprised by the mess you’ve made.”

Eames looks up then, at the man behind the King, and smirks darkly. “Ratted me out, did you, Yusuf?”

“I prefer to maintain my distance from this entire debacle, thank you. I make the potions. It is not my responsibility to monitor how they are used afterwards,” the third man sniffs.

“You cannot possibly think that after all of these years, I haven’t learned to keep an eye on you,” the King says matter-of-factly, adjusting his shirt cuffs as if the entire thing is beneath him. “Now, I’d rather not discuss these matters in front of the mortals. Yusuf, if you will. Eames,” he says pointedly. “Fix this.”

Watching Eames, Arthur can see the emotions flicker across his face, almost as if he’s trying them on and can’t decide which one to feel. In the end he settles on remarkably unhappy and the look he levels on Arthur is entirely apologetic. Yusuf picks his way around the four of them, dripping his potion into their mouths with clinical detachment. Dom has managed to ignore the entire scene because of his infatuation with Ariadne, actually drooling from one corner of his mouth. He barely bats an eye when Yusuf pinches open his lips and makes him drink. Ariadne, on the other hand, seems as if she’s gone into shock, watching the happenings around her with complete disbelief. She opens her mouth automatically when Yusuf cups her chin and once she has swallowed, both she and Dom collapse into a warm heap on the floor.

Arthur is hesitant to allow Yusuf near him, but he’s also rather eager to pretend to be as oblivious as his friends. He just wants to sleep and wake up and pretend that all of this never happened to him. He tenses when Yusuf approaches him, automatically twisting his head away when Yusuf reaches for his mouth. It startles the both of them when Eames muscles his way in between them and snatches the vial.

“I’ll do it,” Eames growls, already laying a heavy yet comforting hand on Arthur’s shoulder. Just to be contrary, Arthur wants to pull away and pitch a fit.

He doesn’t want to feel the way he does in Eames’s presence, like he could melt into his arms and stay there and never again want for a thing. Eames has played with his head and hurt his friends and may still not be real and Arthur loves him and it’s all very fucked up.

“You’re showing your hand,” warns Yusuf softly, but he stands back when Eames angles his body toward Arthur, curving his bulk around Arthur’s frame.

“Drink this for me, then, darling,” Eames says in a whisper that reminds Arthur of voices on the wind. He drinks.

Lifting his head from the table, Arthur grimaces at the puddle of drool that has formed at the corner of his mouth. The late morning sun streaming in through the windows seems garishly bright and he has to blink a few times to get used to it. The car is full, bustling and noisy, and there is an empty bottle of champagne sitting in the center of their table.

“That was some potent stuff,” Ariadne laughs awkwardly, her shoulders tense against Arthur’s.

Dom clears his throat and nods. He looks right at Mal, his eyes solemn and intense. Looking back at him, she seems more fragile than Arthur has ever seen her when she tries to smile.

Dom takes her hand. “I love you,” he says, and it’s more a statement of fact than a declaration. He doesn’t seem to be saying it to make up for anything, but only because he wants to and that, more than anything, makes it a little easier for Arthur to breathe.

“I love _you_ ,” Mal breathes, softening. Turning to Arthur and Ariadne, she looks down as if to steel her courage before looking up again, her eyes full of an apology she doesn’t seem to fully understand. “Dom, I think we should go home.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah.”

…

When Arthur was in high school, reading Romeo and Juliet, his English teacher said that it only takes a wedding at the end to make a story a comedy.

…

Dom and Mal don’t call off their engagement, but they do decide to postpone the actual wedding until they’ve both graduated. It gives them time to plan a proper party and they’re both surprised when Miles not only gives them the okay but the money as well. After a year and a half, Miles gives his daughter away freely in front of friends and family and everyone claps and Arthur smiles through it all. No one else remembers a thing from their train ride, except that they drank too much champagne and woke feeling regretful and a little like throwing up. But Arthur wasn’t so fortunate.

He hasn’t had another dream since the train, hasn’t been transported to a faerie glen full of fireflies in a year and a half. He’s hesitant about dating. He can’t tell if it’s paranoia that keeps him away when a man expresses interest in him or if it’s that no one can spark anything in him, that their hair is never the right color or their eyes are always just blue or just green or just gray. Sometimes he feels someone watching him but he never looks over his shoulder, afraid there will be no one there. His heart aches over it, but he chastises himself for it and does his best to think about other things. As time goes on, he convinces himself it really was all in his head.

He’s standing off on his own, underneath the fairy lights that have been woven around the tree branches to look like fireflies. He’s holding a glass of champagne but he doesn’t drink it, content just to watch everyone smiling and laughing and happy. Hearing Ariadne’s laugh from the dance floor, he looks just in time to see her throw her head back with delight at something her dance partner is saying, eyes shining. The man’s attention is focused entirely on her and the almost goofy look of adoration on his face makes Arthur grin. She deserves to be adored and he's happy for her.

Something in Arthur’s periphery catches his eye and he turns his head to see Mr. Fischer standing in the shadows, his fingers intertwined with the King of Avalon’s. Heart skipping, Arthur nearly drops his glass, the world suddenly gone silent around him. Mr. Fischer sees him watching and smiles a little sadly, tilting his head and trying to convey an apology he can’t speak outright. Arthur tries to smile awkwardly, even though he suddenly feels lightheaded and a little like he might pass out. When an arm comes around his waist, he immediately lets it take his weight, thankful for the support.

“Hello, darling.”

“Am I dreaming?” Arthur asks, feeling a little hysterical.

“Afraid not.” Eames’s lips are soft against the shell of Arthur’s ear. Arthur hasn’t looked away from Mr. Fischer but when he blinks, Mr. Fischer and his companion are gone, empty space where they’d stood.

“What do you want from me now?” Arthur chokes out, angry with himself for feeling so right with Eames’s arms around him.

“Nothing that you won’t give me willingly,” Eames says, sounding more sincere than Arthur can easily believe.

Arthur turns then and Eames lets his arms drop. He looks the same as on the train, solid and human. Arthur is taller than him by an inch, but their lips match up like kissing is meant to be an easy thing for them.

“Tell me the truth,” Arthur demands then, and he doesn’t have to elaborate for Eames to know what he means.

“We faeries are fickle folk,” Eames says, shoulders slumped but eyes hopeful. “After centuries together, the King’s eye sometimes strayed. When his husband’s eyes settled on another, though, well that was unacceptable, wasn’t it? I was just meant to scare you off, make you forget your Mr. Fischer so he would turn back to the arms of his husband. Then Saito got it in his head I should make you fall in love with the young lady, Ariadne was it? Said he’d seen her make eyes at you and wouldn’t it be a clean and simple solution to his problem. Forget my problems though. Forget I’d already fallen in love with you, myself.”

Swallowing, Eames looks for Arthur’s reaction from beneath lowered lashes, contrite. Arthur feels like he’s been punched in the gut but in an impossibly pleasant way. He leans toward Eames subconsciously and Eames lets him, growing a little bolder.

“So you made Dom fall in love with her instead,” Arthur puts together on his own, dismayed but not pulling away.

“I make mischief, Arthur, it’s what I _do_.”

“So what, are you here to whisk me away to Avalon forever, now?” Arthur is adverse to the idea, deep down.

“Well, no,” Eames says, mouth twisting unhappily. “Not yet, anyway. Must be punished for my disobedience, you see.”

Arthur just looks at him.

“I’ve been banished from Avalon for an, as of yet, undetermined amount of time. This is how the whole Robin Hood thing came about, you know. Had to entertain myself the last time I was bad.”

Arthur has to stifle a chuckle at that, because here’s his chance to finally have the upper hand. “What does that mean for me? You play around with me until time out is over?”

Eames fidgets uncomfortably, but forces himself to meet Arthur’s eyes. “Well I was hoping, really, you’d let me court you proper, and love you proper, and then you’d come back with me of your own free will.”

“In an undetermined amount of time..?”

“Yes?”

“Then I guess I'll give you my answer in an undetermined amount of time.”

Eames’s face falls and a sad storm begins to brew in his eyes. Arthur doesn’t particularly want to see what Eames will get up to this time around if left to his own devices and stuck in a mortal world, so he leans in swiftly and kisses him. A thrill shoots down his spine at the surprised and happy gasp Eames emits and Arthur finally begins to feel like he and Eames are on even ground.

“This is real?” Arthur asks. “I’m not dreaming?”

“This is real,” Eames affirms in light whispers against his lips. “You couldn’t possibly dream bigger.”

Arthur finally lets himself laugh and presses his lips more firmly against Eames’s. They are familiar and completely new all at once, like something out of a half-remembered dream.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to Lezzerlee for the beta which I desperately needed. This fic would be a mess without your help. And to Fayelafee whose video inspired this fic. Even though this isn't my favorite thing I've ever written, your video is gorgeous and I tried to do it justice. Thank you so much for everything, bb!


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